


Electric Violet

by HenryMercury



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Established Relationship, Fluff and Crack, Humor, M/M, Polyamory, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 12:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11921115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury
Summary: "If I could go back and tell my past self," Draco says, as he hasn't stopped saying yet and presumably never will, "that one day Harry Potter would present me with a large purple dildo..." He trails off, apparently unable to describe quite what the outcome of this hypothetical interaction would be."Harry wins," Neville wheezes, "it's too good. It's just," Nev stops because he's laughing too hard again, "Harry, did you think we didn't have enough dicks between us already, or something?"





	Electric Violet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotTonightJosephine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotTonightJosephine/gifts), [seeminglyineffable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeminglyineffable/gifts), [Seefin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seefin/gifts).



> There is a context, but not enough of one to actually absolve me of this.  
> Instead I'll name the accessories to the crime: NotTonightJosephine, who knows full well what she has done; SeeminglyIneffable, who saw this happening and did nothing to stop it; Seefin for encouragement and also for putting this triad on my mind. The title didn't start out as a nod to Electric Light but it's one now.

They sit at the round kitchen table with mugs of tea, as is their post-meal custom on date night. They've been out for tapas and Harry has never been good at laying off the jamón so he's glad for the break to settle his stomach. They went to the place with all the good vegetarian options for Neville, and Harry can tell from the way Nev's breaths are deep and measured that he feels the same. Draco looks the least affected, but he had more of the sangria than either of them, even if that only added up to two glasses. Red wine makes Draco very smiley at first, then a bit sleepy, but Harry knows from experience that he'll pull through that phase soon enough.

"What are our entries for tonight, then, gentlemen?" Draco asks, sipping his Earl Grey.

"Oops, mine's upstairs," says Neville, pushing out his chair and standing, mug of camomile in hand, and walking out of the kitchen into the hall where the stairs are located.

Harry only has to walk across the room to where he's stashed the nondescript cardboard box.

"Where's yours?" he asks Draco, who hasn't moved at all.

Draco waves his phone in answer. Harry smirks and wonders what it'll be this time: a video, a complicated diagram to recreate, a piece of erotica he'll dramatically read for them.

Harry's find is rather more physical in nature, which is normally the way of it and means they strike a good balance between them. He's been looking forward to tonight ever since he struck gold in a Muggle sex shop he visited while he was out of London interviewing a witness for a case. Or struck purple, as it were.

Neville returns triumphant, a small cylindrical container in his hand. He plants it down in the centre of the table.

"Buttered popcorn flavoured lube," he announces grandly. "You're welcome."

Harry immediately looks at Draco, and he knows Nev does too. Draco's the one to watch when it comes to the pattern of flavoured lubricants they've tested over recent months; the man has the biggest sweet tooth of anyone Harry's ever met, but has put himself on a diet. Lucius died eight months ago from his third heart attack and Draco's been feeling his own mortality in new ways since. Apparently lubricants are an exception to his diet, on account of not being actual food, or something like that. As a result, discovering a new variety of edible lube will almost always win Draco's vote on these nights.

"There's a joke in there somewhere," Harry thinks aloud. "Is your popcorn buttered? Would you like us to assign someone to butter your popcorn?"

Draco snorts. "No," he says, "there is decidedly no joke in there; you're delusional."

Neville looks uncertain. "We've heard better from you, Harry," he says, "but I mean, we've also heard worse. Mean Girls references can never be the _worst_ , not even that one."

" _Mean Girls_ ," Draco sniffs, as if he hates the movie. He's been pretending to hate it for the past five years, during which he's dragged them both onto the sofa to watch it approximately seventy times.

"The lube is a strong contender," Harry draws their attention back to the matter at hand. "Draco, I'm curious about whatever multimedia thing you've got going on. Care to share?"

Draco puts the passcode into his phone and navigates Spotify with nimble fingers. Harry may have grown up with more awareness of Muggle technology than Draco, but nothing in his childhood actually prepared him for things like touchscreens and apps. Draco had picked it all up much more quickly than he did, fascinated at first by how taboo it was for a pureblood like himself and later by a constant desire to be on the cutting edge of anything he so much as dabbled in.

The song starts with electronic notes sliding in and out for a couple of bars until a voice Harry recognises as Rihanna's sings:

_Sex with me so amazing  
All this hard work no vacation_

Harry and Neville both laugh, while Draco looks pleased with himself. Anything that gets a solid laugh out of the two of them will do well too.

"Did you write this for her, Draco?" Neville asks. "Are you moonlighting as a songwriter for Muggle artists?"

"If I were writing for _Rihanna_ I'd make sure everyone knew it," Draco answers, leaning back in his chair. This is very true. The first Muggle music Draco ever listened to and liked was by Rihanna—he'd told Harry and Neville so back when things were new between them and they were still getting to know each other as adults instead of stubborn schoolchildren. He's been remarkably loyal to her ever since. He plays it off as a joke sometimes, but Harry's decided he's going to make sure he gets them tickets to her next English show.

"It's a good song, but what's your proposition? Do we listen to it on repeat while we do it? Or just once? Is it all supposed to be over in the time it takes the song to play? Because I can tell you right now that no one's getting in my arse in that kind of timeframe," says Harry.

Draco rolls his eyes, but doesn't argue, and Harry grins because he's clearly landed a blow there.

They don't fight like they used to, of course—not unless one has _really_ done something to upset the other, and on those occasions Nev's level-headedness and peacemaking instincts are their glue. They bicker, though, over anything and everything. The realisation that when Draco wasn't being genuinely malicious it was _fun_ to argue with him had been key to Harry's decision that he wanted more from the git than just the friendship they'd been developing at the time. He wanted those snarky comments while fumbling for coffee in the kitchen each morning and those expressive eyebrows mocking him while brushing teeth before bed at night. He wanted Draco to steal the bedcovers with increasingly dirty distractions, and he wanted to steal them right back.

All these things are commonplace in Harry's life now, but Draco travels to overseas potions conferences often enough that he never forgets what it's like to be missing them. He's still got Neville to wrap himself around while he drifts off to sleep those nights, so it's not like he's _lonely_. Neville is generous and nourishing and Harry fucking _loves_ him, but Harry also has edges he needs to blunt somehow and he can't do it with Nev. He can't risk hurting him, can't bear to be mean or underhanded when it's not reciprocal.

It's Harry's turn, and he decides the direct approach is best. He reaches into the box on his lap and pulls out his prize, slapping it down on the table in front of his partners—who've both taken ill-timed sips of their tea. Neville actually spits his back into the cup, and it's a testament to how focused Draco is on keeping himself from guffawing that he doesn't make any observations about this.

"If I could go back and tell my past self," Draco says, as he hasn't stopped saying yet and presumably never will, "that one day Harry Potter would present me with a large purple dildo..." He trails off, apparently unable to describe quite what the outcome of this hypothetical interaction would be.

"Harry wins," Neville wheezes, "it's too good. It's just," Nev stops because he's laughing too hard again, "Harry, did you think we didn't have enough dicks between us already, or something?"

It's true that in all their time together they've only kept dildos for personal use. It's part of why Harry decided this was the perfect item when he saw it: it was unexpected and guaranteed to get a reaction. It was also a little bit aesthetically confronting, with its lurid colour, its bright plasticky shine and the size of its two protrusions—one with the basic shape of a cock and the other thick and round to hold the whole apparatus in place for the wearer.

"Where exactly is this supposed to _go_?" Nev asks, picking the thing up and examining the latter protrusion. He's enraptured the way he gets when he sees a truly bizarre new plant, and it's all Harry could have hoped for. Nev is very game sometimes, but other times he steps back and waits, and Harry's still bad at distinguishing between Nev's quiet patience and his quiet uncertainty.

When he realises Neville is actually asking him, not just wondering aloud, Harry is forced to confront the fact he hadn't quite considered the logistics when making his purchase.

"I, er, don't entirely know?" he replies. "It was kind of an—"

"—impulse purchase," Draco and Neville finish together.

"Shocking," adds Draco.

"To be fair, buying the randomest shit is kind of the whole point of the game. And you both laughed," Harry defends.

Draco regards the dildo seriously. "I'm content to give you my vote, Harry, on the condition that that thing makes no contact with any part of my body."

"Alright; I promise it won't," Harry assures him.

Neville, who's testing the bounciness of the phallic bit (bouncier than Harry had expected when looking at it in its packaging) pipes up with, "I'll have a go," and from there Harry can hardly chicken out.

They finish their tea, discuss dates for the new film Draco mentions wanting to take them to. He's already seen it, because he never bothers waiting when he wants to watch something, but it works for Harry because Draco likes a lot of the same pop culture as him and doesn't mind watching things multiple times, so he has someone to vet things for him.

"Want to go upstairs?" Nev suggests eventually. Harry feels that his dinner has settled sufficiently that he can agree.

Neville carries the dildo, but Draco has already snatched the lube, the quick movement betraying his eagerness.

Once they're through to the bedroom Harry kicks off his shoes and jumps straight onto the bed, enjoying the bounce of the mattress and the creak of the frame. It's a very large frame—custom—and very strong, so he ignores the typical eyeroll Draco always gives him at his childishness. Grown men are allowed to enjoy jumping on the bed when there's no danger of breaking anything, and no one will convince Harry otherwise.

Draco undresses himself more methodically, pulling his boots off and placing them next to each other. He takes his jacket off and hangs it in the closet, slowly unbuttons his shirt and folds it even though it'll be going in the laundry basket. Harry can't take his eyes off him. It's not a striptease—the movements are all economical grace and Draco exhibits no awareness that he's being watched—but Harry loves that about this process. It's been the same for decades, and Draco does it no matter how much he wants to get on with things. It's how he centres himself, and Harry's always felt lucky to be privy to the little ritual.

Neville, meanwhile, has tripped on the way out of his pants, probably because he's also watching Draco.

"I've an idea," Draco says, not looking up at either of them. He's folding his pants, which Harry has just about stopped finding ridiculous.

"Yes?" Harry prompts.

Neville, who's now only in his pants, climbs up next to Harry and kisses him languidly before starting in on undressing him. Harry likes this part of sex, the unravelling part, and will always preserve it if possible. He likes the first brushes of hands against his body, first over fabric and then against bare skin. He likes the suspense of it, the feeling of being discovered each and every time.

"It's a ridiculous idea, just so you're aware," Draco qualifies, "but since you've brought along a ridiculous prop for the night that can't exactly be helped. As a logistical experiment, however—"

"Draco," Nev interrupts. "Just say it. It can't be that hard."

"Oh, it can," Draco replies dryly, but the comment has done its work; now Draco wants nothing more than to be blunt and make Nev feel awkward about it to prove him wrong. Draco's teasing is always softer with Neville; he responds when Neville tries to mess with him, but he never gives more than he gets. In the beginning he spent so long holding his tongue, desperate not to overstep, and it's ingrained in their interactions now. Harry loves him for it; for knowing what they both need and giving it, no matter how much Draco outwardly cultivates his aura of unselflessness.

"To take full advantage of this unholy object, I think Harry should be the one to wear it. Secured in his arse. And he should fuck Neville with it. At the same time, he should fuck me—with his real cock, mind you, and only that one."

Harry and Neville share a pause, in which each of them try to understand the configuration Draco's just suggested. Then they share another, which is needed to try and comprehend it.

"So, what, it points backwards and I just sort of- sort of rock back and forth at the hips?" Harry asks.

"Unless you have a better idea."

"We don't have to use it like that, you know."

"Well," Draco says, "of course we don't _have_ to. But what is the point in an insertable dildo if we don't insert it? If we treat it like any common dildo?"

Harry snorts. " _Common dildo_ ," he mimics, in a snootier voice than Draco actually used. He shifts so that his trousers can be pulled down, and soaks up the scrape of Nev's fingernails against his bared legs with a light shudder.

"Sounds doable," says Nev, keeping his voice level in a valiant attempt to best Draco in his own game.

"You're both batshit," Harry observes.

"You love me," they reply at exactly the same time.

"Besides," Neville adds, waving the dildo illustratively. " _You_ bought it."

"Not with any intention of doing this with it!"

"Coward," Draco proclaims, and climbs onto the bed next to Harry. He's completely naked, and picks at the waistband of Harry's pants, unimpressed. "Off," he says, and then bestows a quick, almost absentminded kiss upon Harry's belly.

Harry wriggles out of his pants and throws them on the floor. Draco's eyes follow their trajectory with a slightly mournful look, but he's distracted again soon enough.

"Turn over," he demands. "I'm eating you out."

Harry shivers. It's a thing he's never fully gotten used to, the feeling of Draco's mouth on him like that. It's difficult to get used to it when every time Draco approaches the task as eagerly as the first time, like he's genuinely hungry for it. At first Harry had been hesitant—not too interested in reciprocating that particular act and therefore guilty about receiving it—but it quickly became clear that for Draco the pleasure of rimming wasn't contained in the promise of reciprocation and Harry felt better about it from then on.

Draco puts his hands on Harry's hips and manoeuvres him into position, arse exposed. The air in the bedroom is a little on the cold side but Harry is rapidly warming up and knows he won't notice it at all in probably a few seconds' time.

He hears the sound of a plastic cap, presumably the lube, and waits, breathing. Neville hops up next to him and starts playing with his hair. He likes Harry's hair, and Draco's picky about when they can and can't touch his—if he's going to wash it that night he'll allow it, but if he's not then he insists on preserving the optimal level of natural oil in the hair without their allegedly greasy hands throwing the balance off. Harry just washes his hair every night and doesn't really care about how it looks, but he does love the feel of fingers through it. He leans into Neville's touch and Nev shifts closer so that Harry's forehead kind of presses against his knee.

Draco's tongue dips right in between Harry's arse cheeks, and the bastard must have held his breath while he leaned in just to catch Harry completely by surprise. Harry yelps, and his head jerks so that Nev's hand pulls at his hair. The spike in sensation has him breathing harder already.

Soon enough there's a slick fingertip pressing into him. When they use ordinary lube Draco uses his mouth first and then his fingers, but with the flavoured sort he's happy to combine the two. Harry doesn't really have a preference. He doesn't need to have one since both methods drive him out of his mind. The finger quickly becomes two, and they scissor, and then he feels the swipe of a tongue back against his stretched rim and groans.

The tongue pulls away and a moment later Draco says, "the buttered popcorn is surprisingly realistic."

"Give it here," says Neville, and he stretches an arm up and catches the bottle that's been tossed to him. It's just as well because had he missed it it might have landed on Harry's head. Harry chooses to take this as a sign that Draco is distracted by the wonders of his arse instead of a sign that he doesn't care if things fall on Harry's head.

Nev dabs a bit of the lube onto his finger and licks at it, testing. He makes a face.

"Not a fan myself. You can keep this one."

After that Harry largely stops listening, and definitely stops making any intelligible contributions to the conversation. Draco licks and fingers him long and slow, and by the time he's done Harry's hard and aching and Nev is stroking himself quite vigorously, biting the edge of his lip while he watches and listens.

"You ought to get yourself ready, Neville," Draco suggests. "Or we can assist one another."

"How can you talk like that?" Harry asks. It doesn't get across what he means, and Draco just looks at him fondly.

"Or Harry here can finger me while I do you."

"I want to," says Harry, because for all that he understands it's not a direct exchange, he wants to give back when he's been given to.

"Maybe I'll just do me," Neville muses. "Yeah, I think I will. You go ahead. Turn around a bit so I can see you properly."

Harry slicks his fingers up, giving the lube an inquisitive sniff but not particularly wanting to taste it. He works the first finger in very slowly and carefully, leaning close so he can listen to Draco's breath and see any tensing in his body.

"You can add the other now," Draco informs him at last, and Harry eases the second in even more cautiously. After a few more minutes he declares himself ready for Harry's dick.

Harry's dick is long but thin, so Draco, who prefers not to be stretched too far, usually requests that Harry be the one to fuck him when he's in the mood for it. Nev's is much thicker but not quite as long. Draco has what the other two have dubbed 'the Goldilocks dick', because in Draco's own words its proportions are _just right_. The curls of blond pubic hair surrounding it have only cemented the moniker.

"I should probably get the dildo in first though," Harry reasons. "That might take a sec."

He's open and ready after Draco's ministrations, but the anchor for the dildo is still thicker than any of their dicks are, and Harry has to go slowly. It feels very strange, once the thing is in place. It presses against his bum and curves up slightly, brushing his arse crack when he moves certain ways. He's not sure how to describe it.

"It feels... ugh. To be honest it feels kind of like I have a ta—"

"Do _not_ say that word," Draco cuts Harry off warningly, then keeps talking to ensure Harry won't be heard if he does try to utter the forbidden word again. "Don't you dare even think it. I refuse to be made to feel like some kind of furry. In my own home. In my own bed. I will leave you. I will cut twelve years of love and devotion loose over this, don't think I won't."

"How do you even— no, you know what, I don't want to know why you know about furries," says Harry.

"Well how do _you_ know about them?" Draco shoots back, which Harry has to admit is fair. He doesn't really even know himself. There are certain things that a person just seems to pick up by osmosis when they spend time on the internet.

"I don't know what you two are talking about," says Nev, "but I'm not getting the impression it's very conducive to good sex. Which I firmly believe we should all be trying to have, right now."

"I'm taking this thing out," Harry decides, and starts to tug the plug from his arse.

Neville's hand catches his. "Oi," he says, "we at least have to try out this ridiculous setup to prove it does or doesn't work. Let me have a go."

"Fine," says Harry, and Nev goes about wriggling back onto the purple cock until he's fully seated.

They pause for a second. Then Neville pulls away from Harry inch by inch, and drives himself back as Harry awkwardly tries to drive backward into him. The result is that their arses bump together in a way that Harry just can't deal with. The laugh starts high in his throat but travels deeper, builds until it inhabits the whole cavern of his chest and he can't breathe for it, can't rein it in at all. "Nev," he says, the name barely recognisable as he nearly sobs with laughter. "Neville, _stop_."

Nev pulls off.

By this point Draco has already, wisely, abandoned ship.

"This is going to be one of those nights that really strengthens the bond between us," he remarks dryly as he lounges back against the headboard, observing the scene as if he's played no part in it whatsoever. "Because we know we'll never be able to talk with anyone else about the fact that it happened."

Neville nods solemnly. "I think you might be right," he says.

They both watch as Harry dissolves into another round of what can only be described as giggles. His stomach starts to hurt and he can feel hiccups in his immediate future. Nev looks endeared and vaguely concerned. Draco looks like he wishes he had his phone handy to film it.

"I'm sorry," Harry tries to say. "I'm so sorry."

He looks up at Draco, who's visibly struggling to keep a straight face. It only makes Harry laugh harder.

Nev and Draco make out a bit while they're waiting for him to pull himself together, which takes a while but does happen eventually. When he comes out of his hysteria the first item on his agenda is removing the fucking dildo that's still inside him. He pulls it a little gingerly, but it comes easily enough. He casts a cleaning charm over the whole thing and dumps it on the duvet.

"Oh good, you're back with us," Draco greets him, and promptly grabs his dick, giving it one hard stroke before very rudely withdrawing. "We're going to do this properly this time."

"Nev," says Harry, "what are you feeling like?"

"I'd like to see you two get on with it," Neville replies. "In fact I'm going to sit right over here, to watch," he continues, getting off the bed and strolling over to the seat beneath the window. The curtains are closed, but they're not all that thick. (Draco chose them based on an intense set of criteria, but all Harry knows for sure about them is that they're off-white.) Harry watches Nev's behind as he walks.

"Look what you've done," Draco whispers, breath hot in Harry's ear.

Harry's not sure what he's talking about until he catches the flash of electric violet in one of Neville's hands.

"Why does it not feel like _I_ won the night?" he groans.

Draco smirks, but it melts into a genuine smile after barely a second. He leans in and brushes his nose and lips over Harry's jaw, just breathing him in. "I won't leave this bed until you've changed your mind about that," he says, as his hand closes around Harry's dick once more.

Harry believes him.

 

 

They lie nude on the bed in varying states of consciousness. Neville is completely conked out and snoring gently, his face perfectly relaxed, cheek pressed into the pillow he's got his arms tucked under. On Harry's other side Draco is halfway there, eyes closed, mumbling at Harry occasionally but clearly drifting. Harry is awake, though he doubts he could move even if he had a reason to. He hums to the tune of _Sex With Me_ and runs his fingers over Draco's very white shoulder blade. There are little silvery scars on his back, but they're less painful to look at than the ones on his front. One—the pale pink memory of splashing liquid—is the result of a brewing accident some years ago, before Draco had a proper potions lab with proper safety equipment and assistance. Another—a tiny raised patch—shows where his shoulder brushed against one of Neville's less friendly plants while sleepwalking. Draco doesn't sleepwalk anymore, but they keep anything dangerous in the house put carefully away just in case.

Harry loves these little details. He's even used diluted dittany on a few little domestic wounds of his own just to preserve some trace of them—the finger edge he sliced while cutting up apple for birthday tart on Draco's twenty-sixth; the burn on his palm from the time he got distracted halfway through an ironing spell; the knee he scraped falling off his broom onto the roof of the house one night when he'd had slightly too much firewhisky to sensibly fly with Neville on the back. He's been marked all his life, but now he's chosen a few of the things that mark him for himself.

"You're being sappy," mutters Draco. "I can sense it."

"Just happy," Harry tells him, hand still traversing the familiar landscape of his back. "Go to sleep."

It's only eleven o'clock but Harry entertains the idea of a midnight snack. The tapas was salty and they didn't stick around for dessert, so it's left Harry craving just a taste of something sweet—or at least something that's not heavy, spicy, or meaty. There are plenty of biscuits in the cupboards downstairs, but he's really not interested in moving to get them and they'll all turn up smashed if he tries to summon them from here. This he knows from experience.

In the soft moonlight that filters through the fine curtains Harry spies the outline of the buttered popcorn flavoured lubricant. It glitters, as if to suggest itself.

Harry shuts his eyes and starts wondering what he'll get for their next long-standing date night. He'll try for something that isn't purple, he decides, but doesn't go so far as to forbid it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [tumblr](http://henrymercury.tumblr.com/).


End file.
